


Lost In Static

by fnowae



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Apocalypse, M/M, Magic, Post-Apocalyptic, anyway, don't know what to tag but read this shit, not tagging ships for now but this is likely gonna be poly fob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 14:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11785311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fnowae/pseuds/fnowae
Summary: The end of the world didn't come with a crash or a bang or a violent trumpet fanfare. No, it was much more sudden and unprecedented than any of that.In reality, the earth kind of just split in half.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ahshdjdjd what is this
> 
> Have fun, I guess? I've been entertaining this idea for a while now and I finally decided to write it. 
> 
> So here it is, in all its weird ass glory. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The end of the world didn't come with a crash or a bang or a violent trumpet fanfare. No, it was much more sudden and unprecedented than any of that. 

In reality, the earth kind of just split in half. 

That's really not an overexaggeration, either. It's exactly what happened. It started someplace in rural Illinois - a kid named Herbert Mellon will forever be famous as the only person to witness the beginning of what's now known far and wide as "The Fissure". In fact, the oft-visited spot where the crack began to open is called "Herbert's Field". But Herbert isn't important to this story. The crack, however, is - and ineffably so. 

It spread like wildfire, tearing through the earth like a hot knife through butter. The crack spread out, not quite cutting all the way around the globe, but breaking apart most of it. Tributary fissures opened up too, the original crack splitting apart more and more until the earth was webbed with unexplained cracks. The planet was now resemblant of a partially cracked egg - that is, if a partially cracked egg was also a planet, and it its cracks glowed with a neverending, unexplained fuchsia light. 

That's another thing about The Fissure - it glows. As if the fact the earth remained intact while nearly breaking itself apart wasn't enough unexplained bullshit for scientists to try to find a reason for year after year, there was the mysterious glow as well. The poor scientists had just given up at this point. It had been five years since the appearance of The Fissure, and no one was any closer to explaining away the gravitational anomaly that held the broken pieces of earth near each other, or what seemed to be bright pink magma swirling in the deepest pits of the cracks. There were many other things they couldn't explain, but they'd just given up as a whole, and people had simply started to accept that this was reality now. After all, it wasn't changing. Why did they need to explain something that really wasn't harming them in the first place? No one could figure a reason why, so they just didn't try. 

So society built itself up again around The Fissure. And that was how it had been for years. It didn't look like things would change anytime soon. 

Until they did. 

The day everything changes, Patrick is scavenging. Actually, he's been scavenging almost every day for two years now - there isn't quite such thing as a steady job anymore, unless you wanted to go into grunt work, which Patrick did not. So his only source of sustenance was scavenging - taking the junk left around by people who had given up on caring and either repurposing it or trading it for food and a place to sleep. Civilization had suffered a weird sort of reset after the arrival of The Fissure, and bartering was now prevalent over real currency again; the only people who still tried to use coins and bills were those in such fervent denial of the world's current situation that they would go up to trade shops and try to offer them ten dollars for some carrots. Patrick had seen people do this kind of thing many times, and it was kind of sad. It was obvious those people weren't quite right in the head. Patrick felt bad, but he also did his best not to let it bother him too much. It was best to ignore it. 

The Fissure had fucked a lot of people up, but Patrick liked to think he wasn't one of them. He'd adapted to this new, weird kind of society pretty quickly, learning fast that people would trade anything for some junk, provided that it was the right kind of junk. And the right kind of junk was always in high supply, in the form of Pit Sacrifices. 

Pit Sacrifices - more commonly known as P-Sacs, since it was shorter and widely agreed to sound cooler - were the bits and pieces left by the edge of The Fissure by the religious nuts who still believed the cracking of the earth was an act of god. These people seemed to desperately believe that if they dropped all their worldly possessions next to the edge of the deep ravine in the form of sacrifices and offerings, everything would be okay again. Patrick had long since thrown away this belief as a possibility, but he had to admit the practice was kind of helpful, as P-Sacs were his main source of revenue. 

Did he believe The Fissure was an act of god? Oh, fuck no. But he did think it was something otherworldly - the strange glow, the mystery anomaly that held the smashed planet together, it all added up to something inhuman. Did he claim to know what caused it? Of course not. But he didn't think he wanted to, either. 

Everyone had their theories - from the ever popular "act of god" to a nuclear mishap to aliens attacking the planet. But nothing could be proved. Patrick preferred to go with his own personal hypothesis of "we'll find out when we find out". He found that spending all his time trying to prove a crackpot theory seriously took away time from more important things, like finding the means to stay alive. 

He realizes pretty quickly that he's neared the edge of The Fissure. It's fairly obvious, because the ever present pink glow has lit up the perpetual night more than usual, and he can hear The Fissure's whispering grow louder as he nears it. 

The whispering is another thing no one can ever hope to explain - since it first opened, the pit seems to infinitely emanate a loop of _a choice will be made_ in a hushed, androgynous voice. There's conspiracy theorist groups entirely dedicated to decoding the message. Personally, Patrick thinks that's a huge fucking waste of time. Really, he harbors the opinion that anyone not doing exactly what he's doing is wasting their time. 

He comes up to the edge of The Fissure pretty quickly, exiting the small area of trees he'd been walking through. Leaves crunch under his feet as he walks. He's sort of grown tired of the entire earth being stuck in an eternal autumnal night, but at least it means he doesn't have to worry too much about freezing to death. It'd suck if it was always winter. 

Patrick drops to his knees a foot from the edge, grinning as he sees the P-Sacs crowding the area. People only come to the edge of The Fissure for one of two reasons - leaving these sacrifices, or scavenging. Luckily for him, hundreds of people come to leave P-Sacs, and almost no one around here scavenges. And Patrick really thinks all those who don't are missing out. 

Patrick really fucking lucked out by living right along the Main - the original, largest piece of The Fissure. It's multiple miles across in some sections, thinning out as it moves away from Herbert's Field. And, since it's the main piece of the cracks, a lot of people come from hundreds or even thousands of miles away just to leave their P-Sacs here in particular. They seem to think that this gives their pointless offerings a better chance of having a point. Patrick knows that's not true, but hell, they can believe it as long as they want it if they keep leaving him all this scrap to pawn off. 

Right in his vicinity is an old coffee machine, two laptops, and a couch. The couch he can't move away on his own, but if he pulls the springs out he can trade them away as scrap metal. The laptops are extremely valuable, and even the coffeemaker can get him a week's worth of food on its own, and a couple nights of rent at some ramshackle shelter if he's lucky. This is a fucking great haul - and that's only what's right near him. 

Patrick takes his huge deep blue hiker's backpack off his back, unzipping the main pocket, where he holds his scavenges. The other two pockets are for food and important possessions, respectively. He stuffs the laptops and coffeemaker into the bag, then rezips it and pulls an apple from his food pocket to snack on before he gets to work stripping the couch. He's lucky to have a friend who still runs farms - it's hard to get fresh food nowadays. Farms are hard to run in an infinite night, and those who can afford to keep it up are few and far between. 

Once he's done with his food, he tosses the apple core off into the void of The Fissure. The Fissure happens to also be a convenient trash can - nothing that goes into it ever comes back. Back in the early days, a couple idiots had tried jumping in themselves just to see what would happen, and of course they were never seen again. Some people still chose to end their lives via mystery death in the pits of the ominous crack, but this was happening less and less as time went on. 

Patrick hops back to his feet and walks over to the couch, pulling a pocket knife from inside his coat and getting on with cutting open the fabric of the furniture. He lets out a sigh of relief when he sees that the springs are in good quality, but loose. He tugs them out with ease and pockets them, not willing to let the metal bend against the heavy contents of his bag. The springs will be far more valuable in their original shape - that way they can be used for their intended purpose, rather than melted down as a sparse quantity of scrap metal. 

After collecting a discarded flip phone, the interior bits of a microwave, and stripping a rusting Ford of its valuable parts, Patrick has a sufficiently stuffed bag of items for trade. He feels pleased by another day of work well done, and shifts the bag on his shoulders to try and make the heavy load a little more comfortable. He turns away from The Fissure and pulls his pocket radio out of the inner pocket of his coat, turning it on to the only running news station in the area like he always does after a day of scavenging. He always wants to know if anything's changed, even though it never has. 

Sure enough, the newscaster's familiar voice drones on in its usual hopeless manner, talking about all the same things. A farm somewhere nearby lost power and their crops spoiled. (Patrick could care less - it's not one of his friend's, so it doesn't affect his own supply of food.) The Fissure is still whispering its endless litany. (Yeah, yeah, Patrick knows already, he's right fucking next to the damn thing.) Someone recovered a fully functioning Prius from along the Main and is planning a cross country drive. (Patrick wishes them fucking luck with that, seeing as all the road systems have been closed down for years. If he was that idiot, he'd have stripped the thing for gas and parts, not gone on a pointless joyride. What a dumbass.)

The newscaster used to be funny and energetic, a dose of entertainment for the boring life of scavenging that Patrick has been forced to lead. But now, even the poor newscaster has gotten bored, delivering his endless stream of repetitive stories in a saddening monotone. Patrick sort of understands, though - nothing really seems exciting anymore. This is life now. And, well, it's kind of shit. 

He's shaken from his thoughts by the newscaster's voice suddenly picking up, which is a damn surprise, seeing as the monotone hasn't dropped in a year now. 

"-oh fuck, oh fuck," the newscaster is saying, voice rising in something like fear as he speaks, "what the _hell_ is that, guys, I can't-"

His voice cuts off here, and the connection cuts to static. Patrick stares blankly at the radio in his hand. Now, _that's_ new. He tries to reconnect to the frequency, but all that comes through is an 80s rock station and a talk show that's been playing the same episode on repeat for three years now. 

"Holy shit," he mumbles, hitting the radio with the back of his hand, trying to get it to connect again, but it won't. 

This is _definitely_ new. 

Patrick is filled with sudden apprehension for something that he can't yet explain. He's still staring at the radio when he hears the ceaseless murmur of The Fissure grow louder. 

Oh shit, this is new, too. The volume of The Fissure never changes - never, not in the five years it's existed. Patrick whips his head around to face it, and he might be imagining it, but is the thing glowing brighter, too? 

No, no, it totally is - the fuchsia light is growing brighter and brighter until is starts to burn Patrick's eyes, but he can't look away. Is he finally going insane? Fuck, it took him goddamn long enough. 

The light glows stronger until it fills his entire vision, and all he can see is endless pink. The forever loudening murmur is now more of a scream, and sounds like it's coming from inside his head rather than The Fissure in front of him. 

Patrick lands against a cushion of crispy leaves, but he doesn't quite remember falling. He tries closing his eyes, but still all he can see is the light and all he can hear is the damn _voice_.

_The choice will be made the choice will be made the choice will be made the choice-_

And that's when he blacks out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna withhold from updating already but fuck all of you. Here's chapter two. 
> 
> This is where, as my fics usually do, IT GETS WEIRD. As if it wasn't already, haha. 
> 
> So...have fun!

Patrick comes back to consciousness to hear the continuous drone of words coming from his pocket radio to his left, underlined with the ever present murmurs of The Fissure nearby. 

The radio must still be tuned into the news station, because it doesn't sound like 80s rock, or like the too-familiar talk show episode, and the news is the only operating radio station otherwise. It's hard to get access to a functioning broadcasting system. He's surprised three stations exist at all. 

But the newscaster speaking now isn't the one he's used to hearing. This is a female voice, and a slightly anxious one at that. As he starts to really come to, he begins to hear her words clearly. 

"-so sorry for the inconvenience," she's saying, and she really does sound sorry. "Our regular host has been given some leave on the grounds that we think he's sick. He passed out on our station floor and we moved him outside in the hopes that if he has caught something, he won't pass it on to the rest of the crew here. Our crew is - is sparse, to say the least, and we really can't afford to have anyone dying off now. I'm Pamela, the station intern, and I'll - I'll be your host from now on. Anyways, in today's news-"

The radio fizzles out, and Patrick hears someone punch the "off" button. A distasteful voice mumbles, "Sick, my ass. Just wanted a fucking excuse to kick me out. A guy passes out for two fucking minutes..."

The voice is familiar - and that's because it belongs to the original newscaster, the one that the replacement had said was given leave. (Though, under the circumstances, it sounds less like leave and more like being forcefully kicked out.) Patrick's eyes shoot open at the familiar tone. 

Patrick finds that he's laying on his back in the crisp brown leaves of the forest he'd passed out in, albeit a few feet further away from The Fissure. To his left, his radio is set on the ground, and next to it is a guy that Patrick automatically assumes is the newscaster, staring at the powered-off radio with contempt. And - shit, Patrick must be hallucinating, or dreaming, or something, because the guy looks like he's glowing with faint light the exact color of that which is emanating constantly from The Fissure. 

"Wha' th' fuck," Patrick mumbles weakly, blinking a couple times to try and clear his vision, but the light doesn't go away. 

The newscaster startles, turning to Patrick. "Oh, shit, man, you're up! Hey!"

Patrick groans and sits up. He shivers involuntarily. It's fucking cold. Which is weird, because the temperature hasn't changed a degree in years. The reason for this change becomes apparent when he realizes the newscaster is sitting next to his bag, coat, and shirt. 

"Shit!" Patrick gapes at the man sitting nonchalantly next to him. "Did you fucking undress me?"

It occurs to him that the newscaster may be one of the more violent scavengers, who like to take items right off of other people - and sometimes, quite literally, the clothes off their back. (Clothes aren't particularly valuable, but they can buy you a day or two of food, and that's hard enough to come by that some people are ready and willing to make the exchange.) Patrick hates those people, because he's a firm believer in the "finders keepers" mentality. But if the newscaster _was_ one of these scavengers, wouldn't he have run off with Patrick's gear by now? Patrick is, admittedly, puzzled. 

"Oh, uh, sorry." The newscaster laughs awkwardly, turning to grab Patrick's clothes and throw them back at him. "I was just looking for - I mean-" He pauses, cocking his head to the side like a curious puppy. "You haven't noticed, have you?"

"I've been conscious for all of a minute. Whatever the fuck you're on about, I'm sure I have no idea," Patrick deadpans, starting to pull his loose gray t-shirt on again. 

"Whoa, whoa, then stop," the newscaster commands, reaching over to grab Patrick by the arm before he can finish putting the shirt on. 

"The fuck is your problem, assfuck?" Patrick asks, ripping his arm free and glaring hotly at his unwanted companion, who may very well be a pervert as well as an asshole. 

The newscaster looks dejected. He sighs and says, "Just...look at your back, man."

Patrick is very fucking confused, but he obliges, figuring he might as well pander to this guy's insane demands long enough to get his shit back and run for his life. Except, when he actually does look, that plan starts to look a lot less ideal. 

His back is decorated with two identical marks, one on each shoulder blade - two concentric circles, etched in the glowing fuchsia of The Fissure. Patrick blanches, staring at the marks in awe. But within a second, the awe vanishes and he's spurred back into action by the fear that quickly replaces it, pulling the shirt the rest of the way on. He nearly screams when the faint glow can still be seen through the fabric. 

He grabs his coat back and pulls it on as well, looking back to the newscaster - who, he now realizes again, is still faintly glowing that same shade of pink - as he does, and frantically asking, "Holy shit, what the hell did you do?"

"I didn't do it!" The newscaster holds his hands up in a display of innocence that Patrick isn't sure he really trusts, but what choice does he have at this point?

"Then what are you doing here?" Patrick demands, realizing as he asks that it's a very good question. How _did_ the possibly insane newscaster get to him? He elaborates based on this thought, "How the fuck did you find me?"

"It's - fuck, listen, this is gonna sound insane, but maybe you see it too, it's like-" The newscaster pauses to make a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "I was wandering around aimlessly because my dumbass station threw me out and I saw you lying here and you - _you're fucking glowing!_ "

Patrick's eyes snap wide open, realization smacking into him at full force. He forces out, his voice a hushed whisper, "You are too."

"Fuck," the newscaster mutters, and Patrick can only nod in agreement. 

The newscaster is silent for a moment, then continues, "I don't know, after I saw you I just - I knew it was important. Like, intuition, y'know? I sat here waiting and I kind of - I'm sorry I took your clothes off, I was looking for-"

"The weird marks?" Patrick finishes dubiously, and yeah, that's something he still doesn't get - how would this guy know he had them if even _he_ didn't?

"Yeah, I - I felt like you might have some, because-" The newscaster stops and suddenly starts unzipping his tall black boots, shoving them off and showing Patrick the backs of his feet, finishing, "I have them too."

Patrick gapes at the newscaster's ankles, adorned with marks that are, while not exactly the same as his, definitely linked somehow. A line runs up each of the stranger's ankles, finishing in a pointed arrow about two inches up from his feet. They glow the ever present pink that's all too familiar, and just keeps getting more familiar with each passing second - if Patrick sees any more of it, he thinks he might get sick. Unluckily, he's fucking surrounded by that damned color. It's laying siege to his eyes. 

"Holy shit, what the fuck?" Patrick spits out. He can't stop himself from reaching a hand out and tracing the arrow-like markings with cautious fingers. They don't feel any different from normal skin, but their appearance sure as hell isn't normal. 

"I agree," the newscaster mumbles, pushing Patrick's hand away gently and moving to put his boots back on carefully. 

"What happened?" Patrick asks, though he's fairly certain the newscaster has as little an idea as to the answer to that question as he does - maybe even less. He asks more as a comfort than as a real attempt towards an answer. 

The newscaster shrugs, confirming Patrick's thoughts. "All I know is everything got bright and loud and I passed out, then woke up with these things. I'm gonna assume the same happened to you."

Patrick nods. "Yeah, uh, that's it."

The newscaster sighs, finishes zipping up his second boot, and gets to his feet. He extends a hand to Patrick. "Come on."

Patrick reluctantly takes it, frowning skeptically. "Where are we going?"

The newscaster pulls him up with one strong tug, shrugging. "No idea. But - intuition, remember? I don't think...I just get the feeling it's not just us."

Patrick freezes for a moment, trying to see if he gets the same feeling. It doesn't even take much trying - it's a prevalent thought in his mind. There's more. It's _not_ just them. And somehow, he knows that just like he knows his own name - an indisputable fact. 

"Yeah," he agrees softly. "I don't think it's just us, either."

The newscaster nods with conviction. "Get your stuff. Let's see if intuition holds steady."

"Okay," Patrick agrees reluctantly. He isn't too keen on setting off on some kind of weird quest with a total stranger - well, a total stranger other than the fact he's been listening to this guy talk about the news for years on end now - but he isn't sure he has much of a choice. Some kind of fucked up destiny is forcing them to do this. And if he really must...well, he'll do his goddamn best. It sure beats wandering around collecting scraps to trade away every day for the rest of his miserable life. 

Patrick reaches down to grab his backpack, slinging the bag, still heavy with his scavenged load, onto his back. He's glad the newscaster hadn't stolen any of his stuff, but the weight is also a reminder that he needs to trade the junk into his contact at the biggest trade shop in town - which really isn't all that big, but none of them really are. He sighs. He supposes he'll just have to convince the newscaster to let them stop there before they go off on this bullshit adventure. 

He reaches back to the ground for his pocket radio, accidentally squeezing the on button as he picks it up. It switches back on to the news station, returning to the intern's constant voice. 

"-shit, this is - I'm just getting reports now that-"

"Swearing on the air. How unprofessional," the newscaster mutters, glaring at the radio in Patrick's hand. 

"Shut up, this sounds important," Patrick hisses, rather than pointing out that the newscaster's own last words on the station had been swearing - a _lot_ of swearing. 

The newscaster huffs and crosses his arms, but listens anyway as the intern continues. 

"-can't believe - yes, I'm getting confirmation, this is real...the voice of The Fissure...it's saying something new."

Simultaneously, Patrick and the newscaster turn towards The Fissure, still only five feet or so away from them. And, indeed, the message has changed. 

"Holy shit," the newscaster murmurs, staring in shock at the glowing pit.

Patrick nods, the new message filling his ears, in the same voice, on a loop just like before. But the words are definitely new. 

_They have been chosen._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before y'all ask, yes, the newscaster is Pete. Joe and Andy are gonna show up next chapter. Well, I know for sure Joe is, but Andy may or may not. Haven't finished the chapter yet. You can tell I'm REALLY on top of this. 
> 
> Lmao thanks for reading

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any questions about this confusing ass AU you can feel free to hmu at my Tumblr (vicesandvelociraptors) lol
> 
> and I looooove comments, guys !!
> 
> thanks for reading!


End file.
